forthedog | For Eostre.

"Oh, don't talk to me about today, lover," she mumurs, pushing her mouth against his, pressing forward under the hand on her waist. Suddenly, she was all eagerness. Suddenly, she just wanted something uncomplicated and just a little bit dirty. Which probably made her a bad person...

Or not caring does.

"Won't, then." Her mouth is heaven but there's more, so much more, so he moves back and then plunges in again, kissing a trail down her neck, biting occasionally, very gently. He likes to use his teeth. He's never been sure why.

His hand moves up her waist to cup her breast, the delightful curve, the weight of it. It's been a long time, he realizes. A very long time. In the Realm pleasure is usually far down a very long list of priorities.

"Good."

When he pulls back from her mouth and kisses down her neck, she tips her head back to give him room, her pulse jumping under pale skin, a silver chain catching the light there. She moans when he bites her, just softly. Oh, yes, darling. When he touches her breast, she ripples under his hand.

The beat of the blood rushing under her cool skin excites him and he bites harder, though still carefully. He's kneading her breast now, thumb moving up to circle the nipple through her top. He's hard, almost painfully so, and now he knows that the second he saw her, through the headache and the frustration and the fucking dinosaurs, he wanted to take her. Maybe even before he met her he wanted her.

My lucky day, then, he thinks, and thrusts against her slightly, groaning into the hollow of her neck.

She groans, can't help it when she feels his teeth, fingers pulling in his hair. She pushes her hips forward, feelings him hard through two layers of denim, nipples tightening when he kneads her breast. Too much fabric, not enough skin, not enough, not hard enough. She grasps at him.

More.

When she presses back against him something flips over in his head. He actually isn't sure at what point exactly his shirt ends up on the floor, but the next thing he knows his fingers are working almost frantically at the buttons of her shirt, not getting them off, not fucking fast enough, the bottom two are sticking. Fuck it, he thinks, grasps and pulls, and buttons clatter to the floor, followed by her top and a second later by her bra; nice, and he's always liked the look of lingerie, but right now doesn't feel like savoring it. He's hungry, ravenous, and not in the mood to take his time.

She almost scolds when he pops buttons off of her shirt, but she's too caught up, and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss and pushing not inconsiderable breasts flat against his chest. She's on her tiptoes, but she keeps pressed tight against him, let him feel that she wants him in the twitch of her hips. She likes the roughness of his hands, and she moans approval, pressing her tongue against his.

He kisses her back, alternating soft and hard, exploring her mouth. All the tastes he'd gotten hints of on her lips are strong and heady inside her. He pulls them in. He could stay here forever, maybe, but he's distracted again. He pulls away and bends down to the valley between her breasts, closing a hand roughly over one while his mouth closes over the other, flicking the hard little bud with his tongue, moaning against her skin. Honeysuckle and jasmine, coral and cream. God, he could get drunk on her. He is already.

She's breathless when he stops kissing her, her lips damp and swollen as he moves his mouth down between her breasts. Her hips twitch when he palms one breast roughly, her thighs slipping wider apart as he sucks and plays with her nipple with the tip of his tngue. She pushes her fingers through his hair, tuggigng sharply. Suddenly, she wants to goad him, see what he'll do.

He hisses at the slight pain of her tug at his hair, but doesn't stop. Pain has never been necessarily a negative for him. Instead he pinches her nipple playfully between his teeth, then moves back and drops to his knees in front of her, grasping the waistband of her jeans with both hands and yanking down, taking her panties with them. And then he stops, gazing up at her, suddenly feeling something like awe welling up in his chest. She had said she was the Dawn, rebirth and new life. He had simply taken it as a matter of course, hadn't thought about it; it had been that kind of conversation. But now she's standing over him, all full curves and deep hollows and skin that almost shines.

Maybe this position is more appropriate than you know, pipes up a voice in the back of his head. Maybe you ought to stay here.

He thinks about this for a fraction of a second, then simultaneously denies and accepts. She's not looking for worship, not now, and neither is he.

But he wants to taste her, her heat, her life, the small patch of glistening, golden curls between her legs.

She moans loudly when he bites at her nipple, oh, yes, more of that and, when he drops to his knees, she watches him, and she moves her hands to her own breasts, kneading slowly. She makes a small sound of surprise when he drags her clothes down, when she's suddenly naked, but she's obviously wet and her hips drift forward lewdly as she twists her nipples between her fingers and dares him wtih a raised eyebrow. She's almost coming out of her skin with impatience, but anything that makes him want her more...

He takes the raised eyebrow and thrust of the hips as permission, more than that, invitation, and leans forward, burying his face in her, running his tongue at first lightly over her soft folds and then harder, lapping at her, pushing into her. She tastes tang and sweet and she's practically dripping onto his tongue. He wants to drink her, can't get enough, and if he isn't going to worship her he can at least do this. He can at least make her arch her back and moan.

She does arch her back and she does moan, rolling her hips forward, pressing against his mouth. She presses her breasts together and then lifts one foot, draping her thigh over his shoulder as he licks her, opening herself wider for him. She's moaning almost constantly, soft, over-laying sounds. Oh, yes...please...bitemebendmeslapmefuckmeplease.

She shifts her weight on one foot and whimpers.

His hands slide down her waist and back to cup the curves of her ass, pulling her even harder against him. He can hear the timbre of the sounds she's making rising; he needs to stop soon. He doesn't want her to come, not yet. He wants to be inside her, feel her shake and clench around him. Reluctantly he lifts his head away from her and gets to his feet, a little awkwardly, bending to kiss her again as he fumbles with his pants.

She moans at the slick, self-taste of his lips, wraps her arm around him and tugs him tight against her, kissing him hard, pushing, challenge, whatever, she wants him.

His pants finally come undone, sliding down over his hips (he doesn't think he lost a button on that one but who really gives a fuck if he did) and kicks them aside, and then with a low sound that's close to a growl he nearly falls against her, reaching down under her thighs and lifting her, bracing her against the wall and pushing up, in, and she's so hot and slick and and tight around him that a cry tears out of him. He buries his face in her hair and stills, just for a second, feeling her and them and everything spinning around them.

This isn't real, he thinks. It can't be. I am not ever this lucky.

"Oh, gods." She manages to force that much out between her teeth as he lifts her and pushes up into her, fills her. He holds her still which gives her time to adjust, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and her legs up around his thighs.

He raises his head and tries to look in her eyes for a moment, tries to say something, thank you, maybe, or something along those lines, but all he gets out is her name before his eyes close and he gasps as they begin to move.

With her back pressed against the wall, she squirms and rocks against him, around him, thighs tight around him, her hand at the back of his head, biting her lip.

He could take this slowly, but that wouldn't be keeping with the rest of this, so he moves faster, plunging hard into her, fucking her against the wall, harder, faster, more, more, God.

For the first time since he stepped onto the sand and everything changed, he isn't thinking about home. He isn't thinking about Hobbes, or Florence, or how to get back to them or whether or not they're even alive. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now but the woman in his arms and the high sweetness pulsing through his head, growing and swelling.

She groans as he starts to fuck her harder, her back sliding against the wall, her fingers making white marks on his skin. Yes, yes, fucking yes, she needed this, she'd been needing this, and she was going to be grateful to him for a long time after this.

He's close, too goddamn close. Tries to back away from the edge, because he wants to see her fall first, wants to be able to look at her face while it happens. He wants her, wanted her, is loving every fucking second of this, but on some deeper level he's aware that this is fundamentally about her, or it should be. Really, her fingers in his hair would have been enough to make everything so much better. A smile from her would have done it.

He bends to her perfect ear, biting the lobe. "Come for me," he gasps. "Come for me, beautiful."

She groans, electric shock going through her at his words, moaning as he fucks her, as she slips her hand between them, rubbing, adding, and it's enough, it is and she's coming against him, groaning and trembling, riding him as hard as she can.

He holds her tight as she shakes against him and the look on her face is enough to send him up and out to join her, muffling a yell against her neck as the pulse in his head contracts to a hot bright singularity and explodes outward and he spasms hard into her, clinging onto her for dear fucking life. Because that's exactly what she is.

Eostre.

She clings to him, the aftershocks of her climax shuddering through her even as he follows her. She moans his name softly, hair clinging to the side of her face.

He slows, stills, feels all his bones starting to go away. Still holding onto her, he sinks to the floor and gently sets her down, arms still wrapped around her. It's like he can't quite make himself let go. They're tangled and damp and a bit of a mess, and he can't help laughing a little as he opens his eyes and looks at her. He reaches up and strokes a finger down her cheek, lifting aside a strand of hair.

"You okay?"

She looks at him dumbly and her face is flushed and she's sweating, but she smiles and turns her face to catch his finger wtih a kiss.

"I'm alright."

"I..." he starts, and then stops and shakes his head. He isn't sure what he wants to say. He feels slightly giddy.

"You're amazing," seems to be the only coherent thought he can express.

"Hush, you," she says, stretching her nude body like a cat, flexing her toes.

He sees no reason not to comply with this, so he does hush, leaning back against her, his head pillowed on her breast. Her heartbeat is soothing in his ear. Everything feels warm and loose and comfortable, almost as if they're not on a bathroom floor, surrounded by the wreckage of their clothes.

It feels nice there, with him lying back against her, and she brushes her fingers through his hair again and feels it settling, feels that girl that she was while he was fucking her slipping away. She stretches her toes, rotating her ankle.

The fingers in his hair are back, and this time coaxing him towards sleep. He rubs his eyes; he can't sleep now, here; they're on the floor in a room that someone else is probably going to want to use at some point.

And whatever was between them is going. Not disappearing, not at all, but fading and becoming less potent. And that's fine.

"We should maybe go soon," he says quietly.

"Get dressed. See if my legs still work." She grins. "I think you broke me. Or you didn't break me enough. I can't decide, lover."

Mike laughs again and sits up a bit gingerly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around for his scattered clothes. "Anytime. I mean that." He hands her her jeans, pulling on his own pants. Buttons all intact. Great.

"I told you I didn't expect anything, and I don't. But if you ever want me for anything, I'm here." His smile fades a bit. "For now, anyway."

She narrows her eyes at him, pulling her shirt on over her head (A flash of belly through missing buttons).

"I'm going to be keeping an eye on you."

She purses her lips, rubbing her hands down her bare shin.

His eyes hit the buttons, or rather, the distinct lack of buttons. "Shit, sorry about that." He pulls on his own shirt. "And I could probably use someone keeping an eye on me. Won't try to stop you, anyway."

He gets a bit shakily to his feet and bends down, offering her a hand.

She takes his head, bringing her dungarees with her and slipping into them without panties, pulling the straps up over her shoulder.

"Good. I don't stop easily."

"Knew I liked you for a reason." He pulls her close for just a moment, pressing his lips to her forehead. He can taste the salt of her sweat on his mouth.

Reluctantly, he reaches around her and unlocks the door.

For Eostre.

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